


He Dances

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-29
Updated: 2011-03-29
Packaged: 2017-10-17 09:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, there was a young goatherd named Frodo. No, honestly! Stop laughing! That's the premise of this fairy tale!</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Dances

**Author's Note:**

> Written January 2005 in response to a sketch by Trilliah on LiveJournal called [ Gypsy!Frodo](http://www.livejournal.com/users/trilliart/12466.html#cutid2). This picture portrayed Frodo as the Gypsy Esmerelda -- only, you know, as a guy -- dancing with his pet goat. I became obsessed with this drawing. I had to know why Frodo was dancing -- who he was dancing for -- and so I sat myself down and didn't come up for air until the tale was told. Of all the LOTR stories I have ever written, _He Dances_ is the one I hold dearest to my heart. And I will never be able to thank Trilliah enough for inspiring me.

~*~

  


There was a boy, they say. A very handsome boy, with eyes of brilliant blue and ebon curls that tumbled in wild disarray. Slender of form was he. Quiet and shy. Swift of foot and quick of mind, he spent his days in solitude, high in the hills behind a sleepy town called Hobbiton. There he faithfully tended to his uncle's herd of goats. Thirty or more of the frolicsome beasts were in his keeping. And he knew each one by name, knew the path each was most likely to stray down in search of food or mischief. Knew and loved his sometimes troublesome charges. But one was extra special to his heart.

Its name was Sam.

There was a spark of intelligence in Sam's eyes that none of the other goats possessed. He almost seemed to understand the poetry that the young goatherd quoted to fill the long, lonely hours of his watch. Day after day, he stood contentedly beside Frodo, head tilted to one side, and seemed to sway with the lilting music of his master's voice. One foot lifted, then another, marking the measure of the rhyme.

One day, apparently deeply moved by hitherto unknown depths of emotion, the goat began to hop and skip about. Frodo laughed in delight and leapt lightly to his feet, clapping his hands and twirling around for the sheer joy of being young and alive. And the goat capered about the field with him, bleating softly as Frodo tilted back his head and sang a sweet and haunting refrain in a clear and achingly lovely voice. And so they passed a most pleasant afternoon together. And the next day they passed another such. And then another. And yet still another...

  


[](http://www.ultraimg.com/image/GFXK)

  


Word was soon whispered about the village, passed on by wayfarers who chanced across the uncommon sight of a dancing goatherd and his dancing goat. At first folk like the miller's son snickered disparagingly, mock-ruing how the poor young lad had cracked, and what a shame it was his actions made a fool of a once proud family name. But as the tale grew, the rumours changed and softened. Frodo's skill and beauty became the heart of every tale. And so, one sunny summer day, one by one the curious people of the village crept up the wild hillside, and hid amongst the brambles, and watched the young lad dance. They wept to see his peerless grace. They smothered joyful laughter as Sam matched Frodo step for step. Even the silly goat herd paused in its grazing to stare in wonder at the sight.

Oblivious to his audience, Frodo danced. First one arm and then the other curved above his head, one arm and then the other hovered by his trim waist. Slim legs lifted and lowered, now the tread too light to hear, now the rhythm pounded on the hard-packed soil to echo in the watchers' chests. Spin and dip and turn and glide. Bow and rise and leap and land. Frodo's tunic swayed with the smooth roll of his hips, the sash that bound it fluttered wildly at his side. On and on and on he danced, now singing in joyous accompaniment, now twirling in silence to a music only he could hear. And ever Sam was with him, lost in the self same song.

As afternoon wore away, dusky pink fingers of evening light touched and matched the blush upon the dancer's otherwise fair skin. And eventually, inevitably, he wearied. Flushed and radiant, he sank down to the cool grass and closed his eyes for a well-deserved rest. He did not hear the villagers silently tip-toe away. And if Sam took the slightest notice of their presence, he did not see fit to tell his master so.

And so the legend of the dancing goatherd was born. As legends do, it grew with every telling. The story spread far beyond the borders of the simple, rural town. It passed across the wide waters of the swift-flowing Brandywine. It flew across the Misty Mountains. It swept across the Rohan plains. Elves whispered of the lad in the sun-speckled shade of their forests and wove songs of praise to sing beneath the star-strewn sky. Dwarves spoke of him with awe in their mithril-decorated halls, in caverns far beyond the reach of sun or moonlight's arms. And in a city far away, in a palace garden more beautiful than any you might ever dream existed, word reached the ear of a sad and haughty king.

“I must see this wonder for myself,” he cried. “Fetch my guards! Ready the horses. We ride this very hour.”

Amongst the throng that set off that day in company with the king was a simple squire. He had not a copper penny to his name, and his clothes were worn and threadbare, for the master that he served was a miserly man. But the lad was sweet of face and temper. He was curious and bright, though this curiosity led him to hard knocks about the ears more often than not, and his shyness was oft mistaken for stupidity. That he was chosen to go on this adventure pleased him immensely, for he had never ventured farther than an afternoon's journey from his home. He was certain the world was filled with many wondrous mysteries. Of course, he hid his shimmering excitement behind a mask of bland indifference, and firmly kept his eyes upon the menial tasks his master set.

When the king in all his splendor thundered into Hobbiton, the people of this humble village scarcely knew what courtesies to make. Some bowed or curtsied, some knelt, several flung themselves face downwards in the dust, and no small few among them simply burst into tears. But the king spared no time for acknowledgments or reprimands. “Where is the lad?” he rumbled. “Bring me your dancer and his strange partner. I would have them dance for me.”

The miller's son and a ragtag mob of bully boys rushed off into the hills to do the king's bidding. They found Frodo sitting quietly by a merrily babbling stream, nibbling on a crust of bread and contentedly guarding his herd.

“Hoi!” the miller's son hollered, roughly grabbing Frodo's arm and hauling him to his feet. “Come with me, ye ninny. Yer wanted by the king hisself.”

“What have I to do with kings?” Frodo replied, honestly bewildered. He tried in vain to pull free of the hurtful clasp. “Be off! I have no time for your jokes, I must tend to my goats.”

“Come wi' us,” the miller's lad repeated, and gave the protesting Frodo no choice but to follow. “Grab the goat!” he bellowed, to his slack-jawed friends.

Confused looks passed to and fro. “Which goat?” a braver lad inquired. “They all look the same to me.”

But the miller's lad was spared this difficult decision as one goat tore itself from the anxious herd and charged towards them, bleating in fierce anger.

“Tha' one'll due,” he sneered. “It seems fond enough of its master.”

“Don't hurt him!” Frodo cried, as one of the larger lads wrestled the frantic goat down to the ground, and pressed a cruel hand on its throat to hold it there. “Sam! Sam! Lay still!” he begged. And the goat ceased its wild struggles, though it angrily eyed the fingers dangling near its face.

Quickly trussed and slung across the back of its captor like a lumpy sack of 'taters, the goat was carried down the hill while his master walked along beside, head held high and proud, steadfastly ignoring the bruising grip that held his arm.

It had been years since Frodo had entered Hobbiton. It had been months since he had enjoyed any human conversation, save that of his uncle in their small smial on the hill. He keenly felt the stares of the villagers. He felt a hot blush tinge his fair skin as he compared his humble clothing with their more decorous attire. But, still, he held his head high and walked gracefully down the paths his captors chose.

“Is this the lad?” a deep voice rumbled.

Frodo's gaze shot to the speaker. A bearded giant, he seemed. Taller than any man Frodo had ever seen before. The certainty of his mien and the sureness of his voice left no doubt in Frodo's mind. This was indeed a king. He would know him for one even without the richness of his clothes or the twinkling jewels of the crown he wore in his dark hair.

“Your majesty,” he bowed, finally shaking free of his captor's hand. “Why have you had me brought before you? What crime have I committed?”

“I have heard you are a wondrously fair dancer,” the king replied, a frown marring his broad brow. “You are a little wisp of a thing... like thistledown, you could blow away. Yes, I imagine that your steps are indeed sprightly.”

“Dancer?” Frodo's sky-blue eyes widened in surprise. “Sire, I am but a humble goatherd.” A thump and bleat of dismay caught his attention. He knelt beside his Sam, resting a gentle hand on the goat's heaving side and stroking him gently to ease the panic in his eyes. Frodo's own eyes darkened to a stormy midnight-hue. “And this is my charge,” he stated coldly, slim fingers trying to pick free the knotted rope. “He should not be treated so.”

A tiny ripple stirred through the crowd. Goatherds did not reprimand a king. The young squire edged behind his pony.

“Then you refuse to dance?” the king said slowly.

“No, sir,” Frodo replied. “I will dance for you if you desire it.”

The king made a slight gesture and a guard stepped forward, silver blade swift to slice the stubborn knots. A second gesture and a wide circle cleared with Frodo and Sam at its centre.

“What music do you require?” the king demanded, settling himself in the seat hastily offered by none other than Hobbiton's mayor himself. “I have brought with me the finest musicians in the land. They will play whatever you request. Command them.”

Frodo but shrugged in answer. What did he know of fine music or musicians? The tunes he knew played in his heart.

The king waved an airy hand and the musicians began to play.

Frodo simply stood there, quietly absorbing the complex melody, and then he lifted both hands over his head and closed his eyes. Not a breath stirred amongst the watchers. One moment Frodo was still as a statue, perfectly formed, cold and distant as the stars... in the next instant he was fire itself set free amongst them. He was their collective heartbeat. He was the music. He was the breeze and changing seasons. Frodo danced.

At first poor Sam cringed to be so at the centre of attention, in such unfamiliar surroundings. But he could not long resist the influence his master had upon him. Slowly his hooves marked out the time, tail twitching anxiously. A few false starts, and he bumped heavily into Frodo. For the first time since the dance began, Frodo opened his eyes and looked down upon his faithful friend. And he smiled. A second ripple stirred through the crowd at this. The king himself leaned forward, drawn by the sweetness of the smile. And Sam leapt in joy to see it. Their footsteps changed to match each other. And they danced.

Still half hidden by the warm flank of his pony, the young squire clutched the pommel of the saddle till his knuckles whitened. No breath he drew, for it had been stolen quite away. He did not blink, for fear he might miss an instant of the dance. Tears streamed down his face to see such peerless beauty, and in a heartbeat his heart was lost beyond recall.

As the final notes slowly faded and the musicians lowered their instruments, no applause met the graceful, deep bow with which Frodo ended the dance. The lack of this customary show of appreciation seemed no more than appropriate. To call Frodo's exquisite dance a mere performance was to profane it. It transcended all description. It was a gift none present that day would soon forget. Save for the miller's son, who wore his customary scowl of jealousy and spite, the faces encircling Frodo were soft now with awed pleasure. And when he finally lifted his head, and turned it to regard the king, Frodo saw with amazement that tears glistened on the stern man's cheeks.

“In all my long life, I have never seen your likes,” the king said quietly, when he could finally trust his voice to speak. “You shall be rich, Young Master Dancer. You shall be famous. You shall find favour in my eyes above all others. Arise, my precious, shining jewel. Priceless. Treasured. Rare. And when we return to my kingdom--”

Frodo straightened suddenly with disbelief. “When _we_ return?” he echoed. “Sire, this is my home. I do not wish to leave it. The years grow weary on my uncle. Who will tend our herd?”

“Your uncle shall find a home with you, lad, in my palace,” the king chuckled. “His hard days of toil are over. Neither you nor he will ever want for any comfort life may offer. As for your goats, why, let the good townsfolk divide the herd -- you have no further need of them. Save this one, perhaps, till he grows old and finds his bones more fitted for a stew.”

Frodo's eyes flashed blue fire. Proudly, he drew himself to his full height and looked the king squarely in the eye. “No,” he said.

“No?” repeated the king. “ _No_? Do you not recognize the honour I would give you?” Angrily he rose to tower over the unflinching hobbit. “The choice is not yours to make,” he hissed. “You will come with me. You will dance when I command it. You will--”

“No,” Frodo interrupted. “No, I will not. I will not go. I will not dance. I will not--”

“You will not live to see the light of day if you do not obey me!” the king roared. His guards roiled round about him, bristling with the implements of war.

Frodo trembled, but his resolve did not fail. “I will not,” he repeated. And he crossed his arms across his breast and smiled.

“Guards!” the king commanded, and the men snapped to attention. “You will lock this insolent pup away with his filthy goat. Let him reconsider my generous offer at his leisure. But I warn you,” he turned a venomous glance upon the boy, “None dare refuse me.” He grabbed a handful of Frodo's hair and cruelly twisted his head back, his hot breath panting on the lad's upturned face. “Whatever I wish to have is mine,” he growled, “ _Whatever_ I want, do you take my meaning?”

Frodo blinked and nodded uncertainly.

“I will take it piece by piece, if I cannot have it whole.” the king whispered, his voice pitched low now, only for Frodo's ears. Harsh fingers engulfed Frodo's slender hand, pried and twisted his smallest finger till he cried out in pain. “You do not need this finger to dance,” the king smiled. “You do not need a goat. Nor your uncle. Nor your virtue...”

He flung the lad from him, and Frodo staggered and almost fell. Caught by a cruel-faced guard, he felt his heart flutter wildly in his breast.

“Take them away,” the king gestured. And Frodo and Sam were banished to a rank and cramped basement cell, unused in the memory of the townsfolk, a sad remnant of days long gone by.

There was no cot, no chair to sit on. Naught but the hard stone floor and a bit of soiled straw welcomed Frodo as he sank down to his knees and buried his face in Sam's soft hair. His arms flung around the goat's neck, he wept most bitterly, and Sam whimpered his own soft cries of distress. How long they stayed like this, Frodo could not say. But his knees were stiff and sore, and his chest ached from the sobs torn from his very soul.

A scritching sound drew his attention. Nor could he say how long this slight noise had been going on. But he cast his eyes around the gloomy little cell, and drifted towards the ventilation shaft above his head, feeling a chill air current swirling between his cell and the one next door to his.

“Psst,” a faint whisper sounded. “Psst! Sir, please, can you hear me?”

“Who is it?” Frodo whispered. “Who's there?”

A pale blur of a face appeared at the bars, golden tufts of curly hair catching the flickering light of the candle stub the lad held out before him.

“I saw you dance,” the lad whispered. “A finer sight I've never seen, sir. It was so... so, well, 'beautiful' just don't do it justice. You flew, sir. You flew just like a snowflake on the wind. It isn't right what my master's master 'as done. It isn't proper, like.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “I'm here to help,” he continued finally. “I reckon I can get you out of here. These bars are old, the mortar should crumble easy enough.”

But the workmanship of the old cells was meant to stand the test of time. One bar came free. The others stubbornly held fast.

“It's no use,” the lad panted, his hands bleeding and raw from scraping them against rusted iron and sharp stone.

“It doesn't matter,” Frodo said softly. “It is enough.”

“But you can never fit between those bars, sir, thin as you are you'll not--”

“I don't mean to try,” Frodo murmured. “If I flee, they will pursue me. I know what must be done.” He rested his forehead against the goat's horned brow. Swiftly, then, he lifted the animal in his arms and stretched it up toward the vent. “Go on,” he urged. “Be a good lad and slip though.”

Sam protested with a few sharp kicks, but finally wriggled through the bars and into into the young stranger's arms.

“Take him to my uncle,” Frodo begged. “Follow the main path up the hill, take the right fork and keep on going till you cross a meadow with a pretty little lake. Our smial is in the next hill over, just under an old oak tree. Sam can help you find the way. Tell Uncle Bilbo...” Frodo's voice wavered slightly. “Tell him that he must take Sam and flee to Buckland. Now. Tonight. We have cousins there. They will take him in and keep him safe. It might be best if you join them. Your master will not look kindly upon you if he learns you've aided me.”

“But what of you, sir?”

“Ah,” Frodo smiled mirthlessly. “Why, I shall give the king his dancer. I will have glory heaped upon me. I will be rich... and famous...”

“Then your uncle need not flee, he would be--”

“He would be a hostage. His life would be forever tethered to the good will of the king. I do not trust his fate to such a man. No, it is better if he finds a home with those who love him as I do...”

“It is not fair,” the lad sighed.

“No, it is not fair, it is not right, but it is the best that I can do.” Frodo murmured. “Go. Quickly. See him safely away. I shall never be able to repay the debt I owe you...”

“Lady bless you, sir, I ain't doin' this for pay...”

The lad pressed the failing candle stub into Frodo's hand and clutching the goat to his breast, clambered down from his precarious perch on a rickety, old crate. The faint rustle of his feet faded away to silence. Frodo was alone. Carefully he set the stub on a rocky ledge and stood silently in the flickering light it cast, as if savouring a last few precious moments of freedom.

Then Frodo closed his eyes... and danced.

~*~

_There is no joy in this_ , Frodo mused. _The steps are flawless, but the heart is dead._ He spun and twirled and drew admiring glances from the royal court. _Fools_ , he thought, _louts and drunkards_. A whisper of silk slid across his skin and made him shiver, the touch as hateful to him as a spider's web. The gold rings that graced his fingers weighed upon him like iron fetters. The jewels that glittered in his costume matched the tears that filled his eyes each night in the lonely privacy of his chambers.

Frodo danced.

“Well done, lad,” came the familiar chorus as he crossed the floor to sit in his accustomed place: at the left hand of the king himself. Only the Grand Adviser claimed a more lofty seat at the king's right hand. The Queen herself sat several seats further down. Her glare as Frodo slipped into his chair would have turned a troll to stone.

_You need not worry, mistress_ , Frodo thought. _I do not want your husband. I do not want his power or his money or his love._ So far he had managed to avoid the latter. The king had made it plain enough that he desired his dancer, but he wished the dancer to desire him too. Till then, he was content to wait. Teasing comments and flirtatious smiles provided ample forms of amusement. The thrill was in the hunt. And Frodo was a wary prey. So long as no other sampled that which the king craved and claimed as his, the game would continue indefinitely. And the unwanted rewards would continue to be heaped upon the favoured dancer's head.

Frodo was by now obscenely rich. He had the ear and favour of the king. Inevitably, he was the target of many a power-hungry, scheming Lord, many a money-grubbing Lady... But Frodo had no intention of making that mistake. He danced. His friends were the undemanding, silent volumes of the king's great library. Much of his wealth he gave away, secretly leaving packets of coins on the doorsteps of those folk whose need was greatest, or flinging it in a golden shower down to the cobbled streets below his tower.

And so a year went by. The seasons changed outside his windows, but no change touched the king's heart.

A second year commenced. And still Frodo danced. He danced for the king's guests' amusement. He danced around the subject of his surrender. The fine clothes he wore hung loose upon him, and the king ordered them all thrown away and other, finer garments sewn.

Frodo danced.

A food tester was appointed to him, after a strange illness struck him down his second Yulefest with the king. Within the space of a month, two men died whilst providing him this service. Frodo now ate less than the new man who sampled his food. And still he danced. And still the king watched and waited. And yet another year rolled by, and yet another wardrobe was made and brought no pleasure...

~*~

Frodo was aimlessly wandering in the gardens when he saw him. He had never clearly seen the face, but the mop of golden curls blazed like a beacon in the bright light of the sun. The lad was on his knees, diligently weeding a flowerbed. He paid no notice to the footsteps crunching up the graveled path behind him. The doings of the great folk were not his business. But when Frodo's shadow fell across his shoulders and did not move on, the lad tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and glanced up curiously.

“You,” he breathed, rocking back on his heels, broad hands braced on his knees, a look of awe upon his face. “I hoped one day we'd meet again.”

There was no mistaking the voice. It was, indeed, the lad that had helped him. But what was he doing here?

“I have a letter for you,” the lad continued, dirt-encrusted fingers fumbling in his earth-stained breeches' pocket. He pulled out a somewhat crumpled, well-worn envelope and offered it to Frodo. “It's from your uncle,” he said. “S'been awhile back since he gave it to me, but I reckon you'll be glad to see it anyway.”

“Frodo!” the king intoned, quick steps carrying him up the path. “My guests are early. Come entertain them while the cooks prepare the feast.”

“I'm here most days,” the lad whispered, and swiftly bent his head back to his task.

Frodo had the sense to stuff the envelope in his own pocket before turning to meet the king with a bright smile. “Of course, sire,” he said. And calmly turned and walked away.

~*~

_My Dearest Frodo,_

_I trust you are well enough, my lad. I am safe and well-settled with your cousins. It is good to be with family, though I wish that family might include you in its numbers once again. I miss you dreadfully. As does your Sam. I sing for him sometimes, but he does not seem to like my tunes. He prefers the company of his herdmates. And perhaps that's for the best. Rumours of a dancing goat might reach the sharp ears of the king._

_I thank you, lad. I know what you have done. I do not feel worthy of your sacrifice. But no tears, now! I feel our separate roads will join again someday. Till then, your cousins send their love... and you know that you have always had mine._

_Bilbo_

He'd lost count of the number of times he'd read the letter. The familiar, slanted handwriting was a refreshing breath of home. He prayed the news still rang true, and Bilbo was safe and well. That Merry and Pippin would do their best to make it so, was a given. They were good lads. High-spirited, but fine young hobbits. How he would love to write a reply, and receive an answer filled with their clever jokes and gossip, but he dared not mark a trail back to Buckland, and undo all his hopes that those he loved were safely beyond reach.

Carefully, he refolded the paper, and hid it in the small space beneath a loose floorboard. Two weeks had passed without a free moment to spare. But today, he had an hour until luncheon. Ample time to stroll out to the gardens, perhaps read in the shade of the trees across the way...

His heart beat faster in anticipation. Yes, the lad was there. Pruning the roses it would seem. Frodo passed him by without a second glance and settled himself on a bench with a book held before his face. Within moments the clipping sounds drew closer, as the lad directed his attention to a length of hedge directly behind Frodo's seat.

“You're looking better, sir,” the lad softly stated. “There's colour in your cheeks. Ah, I'm such a ninny, I should have brought that letter to you sooner than this. There must've been some way.”

“Don't say that!” Frodo whispered. “You're not a ninny! Do you think me an ungrateful child?”

“I'd never think poorly of you, sir!”

“Then kindly grant me the same favour. I am grateful beyond belief. But I am also puzzled. What are you doing here? I thought you were with Bilbo...”

“He asked me to stay. So did your cousins. But...”

“But?”

“I had to follow you. I couldn't leave you here alone, not knowin' how your uncle fared. Frettin' away to nothin'...” Sam clipped awhile in silence. “I told my master there was this girl... that she bewitched me, temporary-like, and that I trotted myself back here fast as I could. He believed that soon enough. No more was said on the matter. He'd replaced me as his squire, of course, but that was all to the better. Me Gaffer runs these gardens. It was easy enough to find work here. And I could see you now and then... I've even seen you dance these three Yules past... when the servin' folk are granted their holiday.”

“You've been here all this time? Three years?” Frodo lowered the book in amazement, and would have turned to face him had the lad not coughed to warn of another gardener's approach.

Frodo resumed his reading. Sam moved further down the hedge, waving casually to his passing friend. “I have to go,” he said after a long while, reluctance plain in his voice. “There's weedin' to be done... 'Taters to hoe...”

“Can I see you again tomorrow?” The words rushed out in a tumble. Frodo blushed and hid his face deeper in the book.

“Aye,” the gardener smiled. “I'd like that, sir.”

“Frodo, please call me Frodo,” Frodo prompted. “And I'm no 'sir'. I'm a hobbit lad-- just like yourself.”

“Ah, now that you aren't, Mr. Frodo,” the lad said softly. “You're something fine... and rare.”

“Frodo,” Frodo repeated hopefully.

The gardener just shook his head and began to walk away, whistling cheerfully.

“I don't even know your name,” Frodo whispered.

The lad paused in midstep, and though he did not turn to face him, still Frodo could hear the smile in his voice as he softly replied, “Samwise... My name is Samwise. But most folks just call me Sam...”

~*~

The next day's meeting passed much like the first. Frodo selected a secluded bench and settled himself to read. Samwise appeared from nowhere within minutes of Frodo's arrival and quietly busied himself with dead-heading a nearby flowerbed. Their conversation was lively, if low-toned, and marked by frequent laughter. Frodo could not remember the last time that he'd laughed aloud; indeed a smile scarce had crossed his face these past few years.

A scant half an hour was all the time they managed. But it was with a lighter heart and step that Frodo returned to the palace. And replaying their conversation kept him preoccupied through the evening's boring feast in honour of some visiting dignitary.

Of course they had to meet again. And again. Frodo grew intimately acquainted with the royal gardens that summer. And never had they bloomed more beautifully, or been more lovingly attended.

It was with heavy heart that Frodo met the autumn chill. The wind blew too harshly for him to sit long on a cold stone bench. The hopeful walks he took oft found him returning to the palace without so much as a glimpse of his young friend, as Samwise's duties took him elsewhere now. As snow fell, and storms claimed the land, Frodo wilted beneath his burden of loneliness and despair, and the slight weight gain he'd made was quickly shed.

He took no pleasure in his beloved volumes of lore. His dance steps grew careless, even sloppy, and the king frowned upon him more often than he smiled.

_Perhaps he will set me free_ , Frodo thought hopefully.

But the king had no such intention. “Perhaps you are ill?” he grumbled.

And the tonic the court physician forced upon Frodo certainly made him so. After his recovery, his dancing did indeed improve, but only because he feared another dose of the foul brew.

Eventually Yuletime dawned, and the long days of celebrating wearied Frodo to the bone. His head ached from all the noise and bustle. His muscles protested their abuse. As he stood there that evening, arms raised above his head, hands poised to strike the golden tambourine he carried, his mind was far away in a green meadow he knew he'd never see again. His head bowed to hide the tears that filled his eyes.

And then the music started... and as Frodo lifted up his head, his glance met a different shade of green: the soft, welcoming, green-hazel eyes of his gardener lad, gathered with the other servants for their Yuletime treat.

For uncounted moments, Frodo remained frozen in place. Uncertainly, the musicians faltered, and stopped playing.

And gently, then, Frodo rattled his tambourine, the clear sound so like the chiming bells of the goats that roamed his herd, that he could picture each one clearly in his mind. He began to sway, and clapped a hand sharply against the taut drumskin, as he had clapped his hands to draw his herd's wandering attention. His feet began to step in place, faster and faster, as if dashing down a steep hillside to rescue a straying ward. And Frodo smiled to see Samwise start to clap his hands in time. The other servants followed suit, quickly catching the primitive, insistent rhythm.

And Frodo danced.

He danced as he had not danced since those long ago days of peace and solitude with his herd. He danced with all his heart and soul shining in his eyes. He danced for love of the dance. He danced for Sam.

There was not a sound to be heard as his dance finally ended. Frodo quietly crossed the room and stood before the king.

“I have asked of you no favours,” he said in a soft, clear voice that carried to every corner of the room. “I would ask one of you now.”

The king tilted his head in silence, and nodded.

“I wish to have a servant. I tire of strangers rifling through my possessions. I would choose one to serve me alone.”

“Choose, then.” the king allowed, gesturing to the murmuring crowd.

Frodo walked slowly around the circle, casually passing by the young gardener and staring thoughtfully into each servant's hopeful eye. On the second pass he stopped in front of Sam and frowned. Sam's head bent shyly, and his gaze fell to the floor.

“This one,” Frodo said. “He seems a sturdy enough lad. Are you a good worker?” he asked the now blushing Sam.

“Aye, sir,” Sam whispered, “that I am.”

“If not, you may cast him aside and choose another,” the king offered generously.

“Thank you, sire,” Frodo bowed. And calmly seated himself in his customary place at the king's left side. If he had thought other feasts interminable, they were as nothing compared to the rest of that long night's.

By the time he was permitted to retire to his chamber, little of night remained. The soft grey shades of dawn were just brightening the sky, and Frodo's steps were wobbly from all the wine he had consumed. He staggered through his door, and leaned heavily against it, blinking at the unexpected sight which met his bleary eyes. A fire crackled merrily upon the hearth. Nightclothes lay draped across a chair arm, warming in the cheery blaze. His bed was turned down in welcome; a pitcher of cold water and a glass stood on his bedside table. And there, in a corner by the hearth, curled up on a mat like a puppy and fast asleep, lay Sam.

Frodo silently crept across the room and pulled the comforter off his bed. Carefully, he draped it over the slumbering lad, and stood looking down at the sleep-flushed face, the tousled hair, the faint smile curving the generous mouth...

“Oh, Sam,” he sighed. And without further hesitation stretched himself out on the mat beside his friend, and wearily closed his eyes. He was deeply asleep within moments. He never felt the cover lift to drape across him. Never felt a hesitant arm loop about his waist and pull him into a gentle embrace.

A persistent sunbeam dancing on his closed eyelids woke Frodo, some too few hours of sweet repose later. In irritation, he tried to burrow deeper into the blankets, but their ticklish texture was irritating too. His nose twitched, fighting a sneeze, and he wriggled uncomfortably. His blanket murmured in sleepy protest. And Frodo's eyes blinked open to find blond curls pressed to his face, his body firmly wrapped in the warm arms of his new serving lad. A brown hand rose to gently brush the teasing hair back from his face; Sam's head lifted, and soft green eyes met widened blue, scant inches separating their intent gazes.

Sam smiled.

It was the most intimate moment of young Frodo's life. He blushed crimson from head to toe, as he felt a strange new yearning tremble to life in his breast. “G-good m-morning,” he stammered, uncertainly. “I--I--”

Whatever Samwise read in his master's face, it was all the encouragement he needed. For the same gentle hand now curled around the back of Frodo's neck and drew him forward the little distance required to brush their lips together in a sweet and tender kiss.

“Oh,” Frodo whispered, as Sam pulled back slightly and eyed him curiously. “Oh... I didn't think... I didn't mean...”

Sam leaned forward and kissed him a little harder. Drew back again with a question furrowing his brow.

“Oh... I didn't know...”

A third time Samwise claimed him. This time it was long moments before they parted, and Frodo's lips, red and swollen and glistening from the kiss, pouted as Sam slowly withdrew.

“Oh,” Frodo murmured, his face now moving forward to follow Sam's retreat. “Oh! _Oh, yes!_ ” And he used his strong muscled legs to catch and flip the surprised Samwise flat upon his back. In one sinuous motion, Frodo flowed up and straddled his unprotesting partner. His graceful fingers twined with Sam's blunt, work-roughened digits, directing his arms up, and pinning them above Sam's head. Frodo's back arched as he leaned forward across Sam's chest, and bent down to claim Sam's lips in a passionate assault. Unthinkingly, he ground their hips together with a graceful, rhythmic motion, gasping a soft cry of surprised delight into Samwise's mouth at the intense and building pleasure that shot to his groin.

“Sam, Sam,” he sighed, writhing in abandon, uncertainty fading now. He _knew_ the steps to this new dance. He knew them instinctively.

“Frodo,” Samwise murmured. “Frodo... wait, love. Slow down. Stop.”

Frodo panted... and obeyed. Wild-eyed and beautiful, he trembled and waited.

Samwise slipped his hands free of their loving restraints, and sat up to hold his master in his arms. “We need no costumes,” he smiled, and playfully slipped a button open on his homespun shirt, ran a caressing finger down the rumpled blue silk of Frodo's tunic and tweaked a nipple in passing. “And your bed might be a softer platform for this dance.”

Frodo nodded, and they rose, clinging to each other as if to let go would wake them from a dream. Touching, stroking, kissing, nibbling, they shed the barrier of their clothes and tumbled to the bed. Sam sank down into the feathery softness and Frodo draped himself upon him chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Their cocks pulsed and rubbed together in perfect synchronization. Frodo moaned, and undulated; Sam's head fell back to the pillow and he gasped breathlessly. Frodo further stole his breath away with a deep and searing kiss.

“Dance for me?” Samwise whispered, both hands at Frodo's waist, lifting him up to straddle his eager body.

And Frodo danced.

And he had indeed been correct. He knew this dance. Had longed, seemingly forever, for someone to come along and share it's ancient rhythms. Faster and faster he plunged himself against his willing partner. Each touch was met and cleverly answered. Each kiss was deeper than the last. Each move more sure. More free. More wild.

They burst apart and came together. Hot and searing, their mingled fluids pooled on Sam's fevered flesh. Frodo sighed contentedly and curled himself around his lover. Dreamy, lazy fingers trailed through their mixed seed. Frodo brought his glistening hand up to his face, breathed in the scent with pleasure, and rubbed it contentedly on his own breast.

“Mine,” he whispered in a soft awe-stricken tone. “ _Ours_.”

“Ours,” Sam confirmed, and laced his fingers with Frodo's wet hand, bringing it up to his lips to kiss each knuckle reverently in turn. “I love you,” he whispered. “I've loved you since I first laid eyes upon you. I love you more'n I have words to say.”

“Oh...” Frodo whimpered, and promptly burst into tears.

“It's all right,” Sam continued, his voice quavering now. “It's all right. You don't have to love me back, Mr. Frodo. Just, please,” his fingers tightened painfully on Frodo's, “P-please don't send me away. I c-couldn't b-bear it!” And he too burst into tears.

Frodo lifted Sam's head with his free hand, and brought their mouths together in a fierce kiss. “Don't ever doubt that I love you,” he cried, pressing his forehead to Sam's and trying desperately to still his hiccuping breaths. “I do. With all my heart, I love you! But...” he closed his eyes in despair. “Do you know what danger that puts you in, Samwise? If the king finds out...” He moaned and shook with fear. “My fault. I should never have drawn his eyes to you. But I was so lonely... I wanted a friend. I wanted it to be you... I have doomed us both with my foolishness.”

“Our foolishness,” Sam gently corrected. “There were two of us in this bed if I'm not mistaken'.” He cupped Frodo's misery-torn face between his hands, and rained a storm of kisses across his cheeks. “ We'll run away,” he said. “He'll never find us.”

“No,” Frodo whispered sadly. “My face is too well known. There is no place I may hide.”

“Then I shall simply be your servant. We need never touch again.”

“Do you think I can be near you and not do this?” Frodo replied, running his hands across his lover's broad chest, leaning forwards to take him in his arms and meld their lips together. “Not want this?” he murmured, his hand straying down to clasp Sam's rapidly hardening shaft. Lips followed where hands strayed. Frodo nursed upon Sam's cock, licked and suckled hungrily until Sam fell limply back upon the mattress, and was lost...

“Can you hide the looks you give me?” Frodo purred, slithering his smooth, naked body against Sam's suggestively. “Can I bear to look away?” Tears dripped on Sam's upturned face as Frodo gazed down on him. “I think we both know the answer is no.”

Sam spread his legs in answer, knees bent up to his chest, and stared at Frodo imploringly.

“Ah, Sam... no. You cannot offer that.”

“There's oil in the night stand,” Sam stubbornly replied. “I put it there myself.”

“No, love. The king will damn us both...”

Sam fumbled open the drawer, and unstoppered the bottle. Steady hands readied himself, then reached out to grasp and anoint Frodo's straining flesh. “I reckon we're already damned,” he sighed, and gently guided Frodo home.

~*~

“Did your other servant not offer you satisfaction?” the king queried late that evening, sharp glance noting the new, bright-eyed lad who brought Frodo his cup of wine.

Frodo hid a sad and secret smile in his jewel-encrusted, golden goblet. “No,” he said, and his eyes were cold and clear and open when they met his hated captor's gaze. “No, sire. He offered none.”

“Then perhaps it is past time that you accepted my offer?” the king teased, and his sweeping, predatory gaze made Frodo shiver inwardly with fear and revulsion.

“I will think upon it,” he calmly replied. And took a second, thoughtful sip of wine.

~*~

A year passed... and then another ...

Frodo danced.

Though he no longer ventured to the gardens to read, sometimes he saw Samwise diligently working there. Sometimes, looking out of his chamber's window, he would see the gardener lift his gaze up to the tower, and Frodo would press his fingers to the cold glass separating them and weep. Sam would bow his head as answering tears streamed down his face.

Frodo never saw Sam at the Yuletide parties. If he attended, Sam kept well back in the shadows, and though Frodo always looked, he never saw him there.

Sometimes, a single, perfect blossom would appear outside of Frodo's chamberdoor. He would stoop to pick it up as he stepped out into the hallway, and stand there lost in thought long moments, simply breathing in its sweet aroma. Sometimes an envelope lay there, no note or word inscribed upon it, but brimming over with a fragrant potpourri of lovely herbs or flowers.

In the spring of the third year after Sam was banished from Frodo's presence, the king sickened and no tonic his physicians offered proved a satisfactory cure. His face grew long and haggard, his once fine body gaunt. Poison was suspected, but no ailment touched upon the lads who tasted his food or wine.

Each night before retiring, as had become his new habit over the last two years, Frodo made his bow before the king and kissed his forehead, lightly trailing his fingertips down across the king's cheeks and lips. Upon returning to his room he thoroughly washed his hands and made sure the water was drained and the basin carefully rinsed clean.

By early-summer, the kingdom was in mourning for its king.

The wrathful queen, gracious in her victory, granted Frodo his life, no more than this. Stripped of all wealth, all influence and power, dressed in the humble garb of a plain cotton tunic and knee-length breeches, Frodo trotted lightly down the marbled hallways of his gilded prison and slipped through the heavily guarded doors without a single glance behind him of farewell.

Quick steps carried him through a lush and fragrant corner of the gardens, where a thousand secret plants that only gardeners know whispered greetings as he passed. Larkspur and Rock Poppies, Foxglove and Hyacinth, Jasmine and Calla Lilies nodded at him from the flowerbeds. Mistletoe, Wisteria and Morning Glories wound around a thriving grove of Horsechestnut trees, while Periwinkles and Lilies-of-the-Valley nestled in the shade.

Sam was kneeling in the shadows, vigorously weeding out a particularly stubborn infestation of Nightshade. He did not hear Frodo approach, but some sixth sense prickled at the back of his neck as Frodo quietly stood behind him, and Sam rocked back on his heels, and turned his head.

In silence, Frodo held out his hand.

In silence, Sam accepted it, and rose slowly to his feet.

And still in silence, their lips came together, and they wrapped each other in a fierce embrace.

~*~

There was a boy, they say. A very handsome boy, with eyes of brilliant blue and ebon curls that tumbled in wild disarray. He spent his days in the beautiful and wild fields of a far off land known as Buckland. There he and his companion faithfully tended to his uncle's herd of goats. Thirty or more of the frolicsome beasts were in their keeping, and they knew each one by name, knew the path each was most likely to stray down in search of food or mischief. Knew and loved their sometimes troublesome charges.

Sometimes the boy would dance. Sometimes he would sing. But only when he chose to. Only when his heart was light. And light it often was, for this boy had a lot of love and joy to spare for his family and his many friends.

But one was extra special to his heart.

His name was Samwise.

**Author's Note:**

> An epilogue to this story may be found here: [Dance With Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9560048)


End file.
